


A Little Night Music

by dramady, edonyx



Series: Smile Pretty for the Devil [2]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramady/pseuds/dramady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/edonyx/pseuds/edonyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I like having people over. I like visiting..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Night Music

Adam slouches low in his chair on his back patio, feet up on the little table next to the empty glasses. His head rests on the chairback and he stares up at the haze in the air and the stars beyond it as he passes the last of the roach over to Tommy. "I ... think I'm a little bit stoned and a little bit drunk." His smile is in his voice. Yeah, that wasn't a complaint. Cassidy just left an hour ago and he was the last straggler, leaving only Tommy.

"I am _completely_ drunk, and just a little bit stoned. Where do you get your shit?" Tommy holds the roach puffing quick one-two-three and exhaling in a stutter that shows he's trying not to cough. Tough guy can smoke up! "You have fun tonight?" He curls an arm under his head, knees spread, slouched low in his seat. He likes the dark. It's safe and private, and means that now that he and Adam are alone for the first time since... _that_... then Tommy doesn't have to look at Adam. It makes it easier.

"I had so much fun tonight." Adam's smile gets wider. "I have a ... a quote-friend-unquote? Who knows a guy." And he cracks himself up. Adam Lambert! Super-spy! Oh, shit. He's laughing hard enough to pull a leg up to his chest. "I - shit! - I can't even buy my own pot anymore! This is my life! Oh, shit. Did you see the corset Lisa had on? She looked good!" Okay, so maybe he's a _little more_ than a little fucked up. Because in his head, Lisa's boobs and sooper-sekrit pot connections are related!

Definitely being stoned and/or shitcanned helps, too, because Tommy's agreeing, fumbling in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and his Zippo. "Her tits are _amazing._ I even think they're real, which makes it even more ridiculous. I think she got it from Lady Beware. Your life, so hard! Christ, Adam." Tommy looks around for where he set his beer, finding it by the foot of his chair. Hey! Still cold! Well, cold-ish, but that's better than full-out warm. Ugh, pissbeer. Bad, man. So bad. He takes a swig, resting the cool bottom of the bottle on his thigh. "If it's that big a deal, going through a-friend-who-knows-a-friend or whatever? I can score you some. Might not be as good as this, but." He turns his head toward Adam, beckoning for the joint again. "You gonna be nice and give me the kill on this thing?"

Adam hands it over without comment on that. "I don't know what of what you said to respond to first," he says instead. "That you know where Lisa buys her clothes, which makes me imagine you in drag, by the way, or that you offer to buy me less-than-stellar pot? I mean, I love you, but I really love this pot. So. God, I love the nights where you can see the stars mostly, you know?" Vaguely, his finger traces the line between them. "I love living here."

"You do _not_ love me. You barely know me." Tommy arches his back so he can belch, full-bass and long. _Nice._ "I _shop_ with her, are you nuts? She drags me along because I'm single - which means no girlfriend that'll freak out - and I have _amazing_ taste in women's clothes, I'll have you know." He looks up at the sky. "You did drag. Do you have like, drag-fu?" This is what he knows, this is what he's comfortable with. This is Adam in rehearsal, cool and funny and gloriously high. "Living in LA means that we can be glam as fuck and nobody'll care. It's about time."

"Drag-fu? What is drag-fu? Like I can make you look good in drag? Which I totally could, in case you were curious. You're perfect for drag, so teeny. And," Adam says, finger jabbing the air emphatically. "I would appreciate it if you would refrain from telling me how I do or do not feel. I am ... I know how I feel. Which right now is _so_ high and so drunk, phew." With a push at the arms of his chair, he gets to his feet and only sways a little bit as he heads for the sliding glass doors that lead inside. "I think there are brownies still left. I want brownies. Are you coming?"

"Are they pot brownies? Please tell me they're pot brownies. I need some serious baked goods on my beer, otherwise I'm going to feel like the ass-end of a cow in the morning." It takes a couple of tries, heave-ho!, before Tommy's on his feet, following Adam inside. "Man, I've done the lipstick thing before, no biggie, right?" He strikes a pose against the counter, one hand above his head, a bright, loose grin on his face. "I have the figure of a supermodel. Love _that,_ fucker."

"Bitch." Adam gets a hold of Tommy's jaw, holding in place. "Sexy as fuck." He's moving in to kiss even before he realizes it. WHOOPS. With the arch of a brow, he manages to change his trajectory and not even fall over. "Cassidy made the brownies; they could very well be pot brownies. Here." They are, conveniently, behind Tommy, so Adam scoops one up and offers it up instead.

It started last time with a martini. Now it's a brownie, and Adam's hand is holding Tommy's jaw. _Again?_ he almost asks, and his smile curls at the sides. Again, if that's what Adam wants, and Tommy already knows he won't say no. He nips a bite out of the corner of the brownie. "Oh yeah." After a moment of chewing. "They taste pretty bad, so they're probably green." There's a pitch of disquiet to Tommy's voice now, from Adam calling him a bitch, for calling him sexy. Again. It's happening again.

Hey, Tommy called Adam a fucker, so turnabout is fair play. But yes, Adam isn't that trashed that he can't see Tommy go all weird on him. Fuck it. He takes the brownie with him as he wanders in a less-than-straight line toward his living room and the big sofa that he can tumble onto on his back. There's even still something of a fire in the fireplace. He eats the brownie in little bites. Mmm, chocolate.

Oh thank god, Tommy was just reading it wrong. "How sick are they?" The brownies don't taste _disgusting_, but there's something weird that makes it taste like those dollar-store chocolate coins. "I'm totally putting away enough of this pan that I can read the numbers on my cell. Then I'm calling a cab and leaving you to your fuckin' excess, Lambert." Adam gets a swat to the head.

"Um, ow? What the fuck." Adam kicks out a foot, trying to catch Tommy's hip. "Why are you being so mean to me? What did I do to you?" A pause. "Aside from fuck you so good you probably jerk off about it, still." Ha! _Ha_. "Is that why you're acting so weird?"

No way. Adam did _not_ just say that. If he did, then hey, lookit this! Tommy's speechless for a second. Then he stammers a couple of sounds that are kind of a combination of trying to sound like a smartass and brush it off, but, well, failing. Completely. "I'm not being mean to you. I meant to just kind of give you five across the eyes and whapped you instead." It'd be nice if he could feel anything below his scalp, too, at this point. Smoking left his brain fuzzy, but eating the brownies makes his body tingle, and let's not forget the beer! "So what if I do?" he asks, making sure his arms and legs are securely in the cart. Because he's afraid he might end up going for a ride. _Boof._ Right in the hip, right where Adam meant for it to land. "Don't _kick_ me for it."

"I kicked you because you hit me. You were aiming for my _eyes_. Which is very uncool. It's overcompensating for wanting me and for feeling _conflicted_ because you want me and you're straight - bi - straight. Whatever it is you are that isn't gay." Adam curls into the couch, closing his eyes. "Rock and roll is a hooker that needs to be tarted up, but heaven forbid that you acknowledge that you're gay. Or gay-leaning. Or whatever it is you don't want to be."

"Oh, fuck you." Tommy gets up and moves to the chair, flopping down with a sullen sigh. "I don't know _what_ I am, or what the fuck is going on, or what you're doing to me or making me feel. I don't _know._" He looks toward the door, toward the patio where ten minutes ago, they could see the stars and they weren't talking about _this._ "So what do I do? You get near me and my brain shuts off. And I fuckin' want you. Is that what you want me to say?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is." Adam pushes himself back and up to where he's sitting again, feet on the floor as he faces Tommy, looking far more sober than he feels. "Was that so hard?" His desire for brownies is forgotten, replaced by another, more primal desire. "You don't need to call a cab. You can stay here tonight. You can be my excess." And with that, he holds out a hand, beckoning.

Just like that, Tommy's caught again. Five words, that's all it took. _You can be my excess._ He finds himself nodding like a puppet with its strings cut. It doesn't mean he's _gay_, right? Or barely even bi. He jokes with his buddies, sick jokes that only guys get, and his curiosity's come to a screeching halt. It begins, he's found, and ends with Adam. He takes Adam's hand. _Lead me._

He's led upstairs, into Adam's bedroom, the door shut behind them, and to the big, wide bed. The covers weren't even made from the morning, so it's super-easy to climb in and pull Tommy down and close and _kiss_ him, hands cradling his face. He tastes of beer, bleh, but under that, he tastes of, well, Tommy, and Adam finds he really likes that taste, lapping it from his tongue.

Adam tastes like fruity whatever-he-was-drinking, and once again, before Tommy can put any proper thought into it, Adam's got him on the bed and he's opening his mouth against Adam's tongue. Their clothes are still on - for now - but Tommy cups the side of Adam's face, tilting just a little that suddenly, the kiss is _right_, and they _fit_, and he's dizzy. He's drunk. He's been eating pot brownies. He's been smoking up outside with Adam. He's wrecked; he's hard. It's going to happen again and he wants it to.

As fucked up as they both are, Adam knows that they can go a _really_, really long time and not come. That knowledge makes him smile and think of cock-rings - not just for jewelry! All he's wearing tonight is a t-shirt and jeans and those come off so easily, like shedding a skin. Tommy's too. Off as if they were meant to be naked! Warm skin against warm skin, Adam's erection against Tommy's hip. "You owe me a blow job," he blurs against his neck, the pulse there, where he kisses.

The feel of it makes Tommy's breath catch, make his fingertips dig against Adam's bicep. "I don't know how." His own voice is all indistinct, like he's half asleep, dreaming. "And I don't know if I can, uh. Swallow." The buzz of being drunk is beginning to wear away at Tommy's not-gay, and he tips his head to the side, sliding his hand into Adam's hair. "But I can try. If you want me to." If Adam tells him that's what he's _going_ to do, like it or not.

"If I come, it won't be in your mouth." Tommy can feel Adam's smirk against his skin. It will be on him. Claiming, yes, marking, yes. And just the idea makes Adam groan and rock his hips. "It's not complicated. Just ... do what you think would feel good." He catches on of Tommy's wrists and pulls his hand down, curling it around his dick. "Oh, mmmm." Not-gay Tommy can be taught.

If Adam doesn't come in his mouth, then that means he'll come-

The first place Tommy imagines is his face. What! That's always the shot that's gone for in porn, right? Or on tits, and since he doesn't have tits, well. That leaves one other place. Tommy strokes Adam like he strokes himself, firm and squeezed, breath panted out almost in sympathy, as if Tommy's jerking himself off for Adam's pleasure. "I can do this," he murmurs against Adam's ear, palm curling over the head of Adam's cock. "I can be good at this."

"You - mmm - you can, yeah." Adam's head falls back and he closes his eyes, bracing himself (even though he's lying down) by holding Tommy's shoulders. "That's good." The callouses on his fingers, built up over time, make the pleasure sharper. With a groan, he pulls himself forward again, his face, to catch Tommy's mouth, kiss him, suck on his tongue and make him breathless.

It almost doesn't feel like his fingers are attached to his hand, or his hand is attached to his body. Thanks, pot brownies. But Tommy can still feel everything, the smooth head of Adam's dick, the weight of it in his fingers, and it makes his own hips twitch, bumping against Adam's leg. How does this happen? How does it _keep_ happening? Tommy breathes quick through his nose, as close to breathless as he can get when every pull of his hand feels like it compresses his lungs down into two little flat balloons. "When?" he asks, pulling away only far enough to speak; his lips still touch Adam's, for all the words he says. "When do you want me to?"

"Oh, God, now." Adam huffs out a breath that sounds like a laugh. "I want your mouth on me." Another kiss, hungrier, before he pulls back, too, back arched to create a V between them. God, his cock twitches in Tommy's hand just to think about it. He cards his fingers through soft hair, urging him down. "Don't worry. You'll be so good."

He slithers down the bed on his stomach, face flushed with alcohol and embarrassment, and when Tommy finds himself face to face with Adam's cock (Glambulge! That'll never not be funny), he hazards a glance up at Adam himself. Ready. Ready. _Not_ ready, but doing it anyway. He breathes, hearing his pulse in his ears. "Okay," Tommy says, just once, and touches the flat of his tongue against the underside of the head of Adam's cock, a slow lick that tastes like... skin. So he does it again, and after bracing his weight on his elbows, a third time, longer and slower, exploratory, up the length.

"Oh my _God_," Adam groans out, a heel digging into the bed, both hands now in Tommy's hair, not pushing or pulling, just ... bracing, he supposes. "Yeah. That's good. That's ... that feels really good." Like a tease, but with all the alcohol and pot in his system, most anything will feel a little dulled. "Nice, baby."

It's not that Tommy's teasing. He's nervous as fuck, almost half a case of beer sloshing around in his guts, the receptors in his brain all fuzzy and fried. Adam gets one more glance from him, dark eyes meeting light, and Tommy dampens his lips, lashes coming down to kiss his cheeks, and he slips down on Adam, trying to keep him on his tongue rather than against the roof of his mouth. Is this weird? This is weird. Adam Lambert's cock, in _his_ mouth, his hands in Tommy's hair. He realizes he _wants_ Adam to guide him.

He gets his wish, without Adam even being able to read minds, because when he feels that warm, wet around him, he can't help but moan like a whore and spread his hands so that they span Tommy's head, urging him deeper before he even realizes he's doing it. As soon as he _does_ realize it, his grip loosens, but _fuck_. Nothing weird about this to Adam, anyway. It feels _good_.

Adam's grip might loosen, but Tommy's not against a challenge, either. If that's where Adam wants him to be, that's where he'll be, and Tommy thinks of every beej he's ever gotten, keeping his lips over his teeth, and bobs his head, coming down to where Adam had pushed him and pulling up. This is it, right? This is all he's supposed to do? When Tommy has to catch his breath, the motion of his mouth turns instinctively to suck as he breathes through his nose, hands held still on Adam's hips. His own hips, on the other hand, dig up against the mattress, and he groans softly around Adam.

Yes, that. That's ... really good. Not perfect, of course, but who was on their first try? Of course, Tommy's not gay. Anyway. That's not something to think about at the moment. Instead, this is more about the experience. When he establishes a rhythm, Adam lets go of his head with one hand, wrapping that, instead, around the part of his cock that Tommy can't suck (though in a flash of imagery that makes him weak, Adam imagines _pulling_ Tommy's head down until he practically chokes), and he strokes in time, inarticulate sounds as harmony.

Tommy pulls back for a second to watch Adam's hand, eyes heavy and dark, lips plush and parted, slick with spit and friction, and then he leans in again to lick Adam's fingers, across the bumps of the backs his knuckles, then his fingertips, up the ridge on the underside of Adam's cock. He's trying to figure out what's what, and what makes Adam feel good, because it isn't as if they're all cookie-cutters, right? Just because there's an open mouth and a dick involved doesn't mean that it's going to be what Adam wants, and hidden beneath all of everything Tommy thinks he is, he wants to know what gets Adam off.

Oral play? That's a good start. That is a really good start. Adam lets go of his cock and cards now-spit-slick fingers over Tommy's cheek as he rolls himself up some, urging Tommy up. "I ... kiss me," he says. "C'mere and kiss me." He wants to taste himself on Tommy's tongue. "Do you wanna fuck?" He asks, and the words come out slurred, heavy on his tongue. "D'you want me to fuck you?"

He's nodding before Adam's even finished, bracing his palm into the pillow under Adam's head to kiss him, all of his muscles shaky, unsteady. They're going to fuck. Again. Will there be rules? Will Adam tell him what to do? At least - _at least_ \- he knows what to expect this time, and even without Adam's express permission, Tommy's hand finds its way around Adam's cock again. He _wants_ Adam to take whatever he wants, a handjob, a blowjob, fucking. It's because he's drunk that it's so easy. Just like it'd been because they were at the club, before. Right?

If that's what he needs to think? Fuck it; Adam can't even care. He gets an arm around Tommy's waist and turns, blanketing him, kneeing his legs apart even as he pushes his fingers into his mouth. "Suck," he tells him. "Make them wet for you." Fuck, he feels overheated, over-stimulated, wanting too much. Even as he does that, eyes glued on Tommy's mouth, he rocks his hips, cock rubbing against his thigh.

Tommy sucks on Adam's fingers, and they stifle the short, shuddered noises that come from having Adam push up against him like that, and he works on Adam's fingers like he had his cock only a couple of minutes ago. Wary of teeth, wet and slick. _Make them wet for you._ Is that all Adam's going to use? Tommy's spit? A shudder runs down his back, and whoops, his teeth nip down against Adam's fingertips.

"Ah!" Eyes heavy-lidded, Adam smirks, pulling those fingers out - he needs them. Then, even as he lowers his head drag his teeth along Tommy's collarbone, he pushes one finger - the middle one if anyone cares - into Tommy's ass. No slow, no pause, right in, and right back out, fucking with it almost immediately. He curls it the second or third time, brushing Tommy's prostate, too. Hi there.

It serves to make Tommy seize up for a second, all of his muscles suddenly too tight for the bones they lay on, and his heels dig against the bed, chin pressed down between his collarbones, teeth bared and eyes squeezed shut. The twitch of his cock feels more like swinging a bat in slow-motion, and he almost hisses something like an apology before the realization settles that he's _not_ sober, and what he feels is probably- it's probably-

"Oh _fuck._" Tight, pushed out between his teeth, and Tommy's fingers snap into fists. "You get off on doing this to me, don't you." What means to come out accusing is only _barely_ that; it sounds much more like a plea for more, or for Adam to say yes.

"I should hope so," Adam chuckles before he sinks his teeth into the soft skin behind Tommy's ear. "Defeats the purpose if we don't come." Gradually the clench around his finger loosens and he can add another, finally lifting his head to kiss Tommy again. "Gonna fuck you _slow_. Gonna ... gonna fuck you good and slow."

All Tommy can do is breathe and gasp, tense and relax. He's never been particularly quiet between the sheets, but hey, he's only been between the sheets with girls before Adam. Adam, who makes Tommy want to _do_ things and _be_ things; Adam, who makes Tommy wonder what it'd be like, even as it's happening. Adam, who confuses him. "S- slow," he agrees, eyes almost shut, watching the way Adam's lips move, how his teeth dig into his lower lip at the word 'fuck'. It's hot, okay? _Hot._

More kisses, wet and messy as three fingers are worked in and finally - _finally_ \- Adam can pull his nightstand drawer open and reach in. He pulls out the box of condoms and the roll goes unrolling across the bed. "Fuck," and he can't not laugh as he tries to get just one that he can rip open with his teeth. With a few more sounds that mix arousal and frustration, he finally gets the condom on and flops to his back, reaching for Tommy. "Ride me."

Tommy watches the condoms unravel, and he looks up at Adam with an eyebrow raised. "Do you buy _stock_ in them?" He's jerky and unsure, and his expression is one of vague disbelief when Adam gives his demand. Ride _that?_ Adam can see the way Tommy steels himself, a couple of breaths, a steadying of his shoulders, and then he straddles Adam's hips. "Okay." He nods. "Okay." Tommy's pulse is visible in his throat, his blush is so severe, and he moves up so he can hold Adam's cock and push back against it.

"Oh, _fuck_." Breathing out a moan, Adam braces the base of his cock and watches, avidly, as Tommy moves down it. And when he does, it's hot and tight and feels _amazing_. It's all he can do not to push up, pull Tommy down and just _fuck_ for _hours_ until he does come. "Tight ass, yeah." His free hand is around Tommy's hip. "Yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah."

There's the audible sound of Tommy's teeth grinding as he makes himself take Adam's cock, not stopping until he's settled across Adam's hips, head down, breath coming in torn pants, fingertips skipping down Adam's chest. If he leans forward, it pushes his cock against Adam's stomach, and there are probably a hundred and fifty different ways to say how this feels, how it's different than last time, fuller, tighter, painful in a way that Tommy knows, now, would lead to pleasure. Fuck, what if he gets drunk dick? A pleading look flickers across Tommy's face as he tugs Adam's wrist toward his cock.

"Shh, baby, it's okay," Adam all but coos. "It's okay." His hips flex up before he can stop himself; he wants to _fuck_. He strokes Tommy's cock, through, thumb brushing over the slit, taking away the precome. "Your ass is so _tight_. Feels good, doesn't it? Doesn't it feel good? Fuck, yeah." He chews on his lower lip as he tugs. "Fuck yourself on me. C'mon."

"Jeez _Adam._" Tommy's face is a strange combination of tense and lax, expressionless in how far into himself he's feeling this, eyelashes sitting on his cheeks. It's good, he wants to tell Adam. It's _so_ good, and no fucking wonder chicks like playing cowgirl. Christ. After a minute of finding his balance, Tommy lifts himself up on Adam's cock and pushes down, then again, and a third time, unaware of the sound that he's making. It's a hum, low in his chest, not quite a groan, but very, very close.

It's _gorgeous_. Still fisting Tommy's cock, Adam digs his heels into the bed and pushes up to meet his movements. "Yeah, feels good. I know. I know baby, it feels good. Slow and hot and deep, huh? Take my cock, take all of it, just like that, yeah." In the murk of the room, his eyes are barely slitted, glinting dully when they catch the light coming in from the windows.

Adam's _mouth._ And the shit he says. Just like that, take it all, and Tommy does, as much as he can, as much as he knows how, and now his head falls back, feeling pleasure shoot up his spine, lust wrapped in tight heat, pushed into him by Adam's cock, pulled out of him by Adam's hand. It works like clockwork, like that fuckin' riff in ...And Justice For All, building not quickly but steadily. "Fuck," Tommy whispers to the ceiling, hands coming back to rest on the tops of Adam's thighs, giving himself leverage that isn't in his knees. "Oh fuck, _yeah._"

It's _gorgeous_ and if Adam believed in sex tapes, he'd tape this. Instead, he twists his wrist when he squeezes the head of Tommy's cock and he clenches his teeth and pushes his hips up and it's enough to make a sober man dizzy, let alone one as fucked up as he is. "Feels good, baby," he slurs and his eyelids are heavy with it, body getting heavy with wanting to _come_. "Yeah."

Tommy runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back from his face, tucking his bangs back behind his ears. There's a shift in the way he's riding Adam, as if his body remembers something that he's consciously pushed away in trying to deny, and there's that seize of muscles again, sizzling pressure that makes his cock jerk in Adam's hand. It's _almost_ too much, and he leans over Adam, hand smushed in the pillow next to his head, mouth just a breath away. Wanting a kiss and not knowing how to ask for it. Wanting Adam's mouth on his when he comes.

All Adam has to do then is push himself up onto one elbow and their mouths crush together, swallowing noises as he doesn't even think about how tightly he's stroking Tommy's cock. He's dizzy and breathless and he's going to come and it can't happen fast enough. His teeth graze over Tommy's lower lip as he sucks on it.

It's pretty fucked that Tommy likes having his dick touched like that, just a little too hard, and it's while he's thinking about that back and forth of too much-not enough - zing-zing! like a good harmonic! - that he comes, crying out a sound against Adam's lips, and it's _different_ than last time. It's deep and _base_, something he can feel behind his ears and in the darkness beneath his eyelids. And Adam's not stopping. "_Fuh- fuck-_"

"Fuck!" Come splatters all over his chest and Adam pretty much lets go, fucking up into that tightness almost too hard and too fast because that's what he needs if he's going to come. And when he _does_ come, it feels like the top of his head is going to fly off. The sound he makes is nearly helpless and he shudders, pushing up through it, through how good it feels. Amazingly good, his hands tight around Tommy's thighs.

Tommy hides his face against Adam's neck, enough unsure of himself that he can't look at Adam yet. Fuck, now he's all wrung-out, shaky, the beer in his stomach shaken up and down like, well, beer in a can. He'll move in a minute, but right now, he stays as close as he can to Adam, panting in the taste of sweat and skin.

Hands rubbing up and down his back, Adam turns his head. They're back to whispering to each other. "I need to - the condom? I ... " _Sorry_. But facts are facts. Plus, Tommy's ass will start objecting sooner rather than later. "... are you okay?" Adam asks as he gently urges him up.

"I'm betting one of my balls that I'm gonna throw up soon." With a wince and a breath, Tommy lifts off of Adam and gets off the bed. "Way too much beer." So Adam doesn't think it's anything he did. It _is_, but Tommy's helpless to resist that, and he's starting to realize this. If Adam comes at him, then Tommy will just say yes. "And I gotta clean up." Which means going to the bathroom where there's a _real_ place to clean himself up, flicking on the light and shutting the door. Twice, now. Twice they've done this and twice Tommy's fuckin' fled like Miss Muffet from a spider. Lame.

Okay. Well, there goes Adam's offer to help. And once he's discarded the condom, he closes his eyes. Then opens them right back up because, hello, _dizzy_. Though, he's grateful to note, not close to vomiting, which, ick. After a moment, he pushes himself up to sitting to call, "there's Pepto and Alka Seltzer in the second drawer from the top to your right, there. And the mouthwash is under the sink."

"Nah, I'm good," comes the answer. "False alarm." The water's running anyway, cold, splashed on his face to try and sober up a little bit, then pressed to parts of his body that are a lot hotter and a _lot_ more sore. After a minute, he comes out with that same downcast posture, careful of what he should say or do now that he's back in Adam's bedroom. He goes for regular: "I say we get Big Macs for breakfast."

"Oh my God, don't say that again or I really will throw up, ugh." With some careful wriggling, Adam gets under the covers and again, he reaches out for Tommy to come closer, to lie with him, to quit looking so damned skittish. In a few minutes, he promises himself, he'll get up and brush his teeth and piss. But not yet.

Adam doesn't seem to realize that for all his nice-guy thing he's got going on, he's _intimidating,_ and after something like, say, riding his cock like a stripper pole (don't ask, he was drunk), Tommy's having a little bit of a hard time with how he feels. So, instead of thinking about it, which'll probably lead to beerpuke, he climbs into bed beside Adam, not bothering with clothes because he needs _nothing_ pressed against his ass, thanks, and fits himself in next to the other man. It crosses Tommy's mind how easy it is to get comfortable.

Turning onto his side (alert to any signs of nausea), Adam throws an arm around Tommy's waist and nestles him even closer. Intimidating, _right_. "I have a hangover cure meal thing I learned about we can have in the morning," he said, words breathed over the back of Tommy's neck, the smooth place there where his hair just kind of disappears into, before kissing it. And 5-Hour Energy, of course.

"Mmh," Tommy answers, shivering. "Okay." It feels as though his heart's beating really hard, but it's probably because he's _exhausted_, still fucked up. Not because this scares him; he's Tommy Joe Ratliff, he's not afraid of anything! Except for centipedes and sex with men that's so intense that it turns Tommy's perception of himself on its side. No biggie. Tomorrow, he'll confront Adam about it. Tonight, though, he's too comfortable to do anything more than close his eyes. "Night."

"Night, baby." Adam kisses that skin again, then turns his head just a bit to rest it there and he closes his eyes too. Sleep, when it comes, is heavy and not entirely restful.


End file.
